Shorelines End
by A Girl Named J
Summary: He's broken. She's broken. They broke up. But they're still breaking. And maybe it's too late to fix it. But maybe it's not. If only she'd stop being so guarded and he stopped backing down. But as life would have it, things never come easy for these two. (A CaptainSwan AU)
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

"_We've established this is where we stand, w__e said after this we'll just be friends._"

* * *

She knew he'd be here - they do have the same friends, which of course was a blessing (when they dated), but a curse (like _right now_) - but it's not like she was fully prepared to see him in his stubbled-face-blue-eyed-messy-haired-glory.

She knew he'd be here, but she wishes she wasn't.

It makes her stomach clench in a painful and uncomfortable way and all she wants to do is run and hide and leave.

Her dress is too tight (although, it's Ruby's fault for that: "Emma make him realize what he's missing") and she's not really in the mood to be downing shot after shot (although, now that she sees him, that might change sooner than later).

All of these, factored in with the fact Killian showed up with a blue-eyed-brunette (oh, so he liked brunettes now?), made Emma feel like suffering through a lecture on the Dewey Decimal system would be better torture.

"Are you sure you're OK?"

Emma feels a hand squeeze her own and she looks up to find Mary-Margaret staring at her, concern etched all over her face.

Emma just smiles polite and nods, "I'm fine."

It's a lie, but who is she to ruin this party? Besides, Victor's just got his acceptance to medical school and it's opening night for Ruby's new restaurant (Granny's), and David got a promotion at the station and, really who is she to bring everyone down just because despite how much she doesn't care that Killian is here and Killian is happy, _she does care_.

"Really, Mary-Margaret. I'm just tired from work. I'm having fun, don't worry."

It's been three months since their break-up. Three months since their bitter words and the violent way she packed her bags and stormed out of his apartment. Three months since he tried to apologize with flowers and stood underneath Ruby's window, with a guitar, to coax Emma to come out. Three months since she threw the ring he gave her out the window only to have the music stop and the sound of a car speed away.

It's been three months since they talked.

It's been three months since she let him go.

And despite her pride and her walls and the fact that she did love him, so, so, so, much she knows she's broken. Knows she's damaged goods. Knows she's just an orphan and knows better than to touch things that don't belong to her.

But even though she knows all this.

It still hurts.

* * *

"So where's the new beau?"

The familiar voice makes Emma freeze. Internally she yells at herself. She doesn't want him to know he still affects her. Damn this inconsiderate bartender and his ability to take her order as fast as possible. She wants to run.

Instead she turns to her right to come face to face with blue eyes. Eyes she used to drown in. She really wants to run.

"Walsh? He couldn't make it," she replies cooly, tapping her fingers impatiently on the mahogany counter top.

"Ah, that's too bad."

"Yeah, I guess it is. I really wanted him to meet everyone, but he had work."

She hopes her neutral voice would indicate she wants the conversation to end, wants him to just leave her alone, like he has the past few months, like how she's used to.

"Ruby told me he seems like a good guy."

Of course he had heard it from Ruby. Knowing her friend, Ruby would do anything to make Killian regret what happened months ago. Emma isn't surprised.

She nods, "He is."

"Well, I-I'm happy for you."

Killian plays with the back of his ear, a nervous tic Emma had picked up on only a week after knowing him.

"I'm happy for you, too," Emma adds. "Your date's very…pretty."

Killian's face turns red, "Yeah, Milah's a co-worker of mine, just got out of a bad marriage…thought I'd bring her along, let her have some fun again."

"Well, look at you, always trying to play hero. Don't go crushing her heart either, now."

Before she can stop it, the words are out of her mouth and they both freeze. The silence and tension between them could be cut with a knife.

She really, really, really wants to run now.

"I'm…I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"It's OK," he responds. "I probably deserved that."

She just nods. She doesn't really know what to say, doesn't know where to look, and decidedly plants her eyes on her feet.

"Look, Emma, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about the break-up…of how it ended, I shouldn't, I shouldn't have…well, if it's any consolation can we just be friends?"

She looks up at him at that moment, the blueness of his eyes looking so sincere, so hurt, so sorry.

She wants to laugh and cry and laugh some more, because really, what exes are ever "friends" after a break-up. How could she be just friends with him?

She really, really, really, really wants to run.

"Please."

The one word pulls her from her fears, her walls come up, and her eyes turn cold.

"Why would you want to be friends with a 'girl who's too broken to love' anyway?"

It's the same words he tossed at her those three months ago.

And the sting still hasn't gone away.

Emma doubts it ever will.

But before the guilt-filled look in his eyes makes her cave and fall into his arms because deep down she knows those words hurt only because she loved him, because she still cares, she turns and walks away.

"I-I hope things go well with your new guy."

She hears the remnants of his voice chase her as she makes her way back to the table, only to politely say goodbye to her friends, and walk out the door.

Who is he to really say that to her?

What does he know?

She's a fool, she thinks as she gets into a taxi. A fool because how could things possibly ever work out with a nice guy who owns a business and texts her nice words and sends her flowers at work? How could Killian ever wish that for her when deep down she knows - and she knows he knows too - things could never work out with Walsh - because Walsh isn't Killian.

And while she loves that, she hates it all the same.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

_"But my heart don't really know my head."_

* * *

He wakes up in the middle of the night with a pounding headache and the blinding glare of the television screen.

His phone tells him it's two in the morning (and it also tells him David has left him three voice mails and Victor has texted him thrice—surprisingly even Ruby and Mary-Margaret have shot him a message, but he is too tired and weary and not in the mood to tell his friends that yes, yes he is alive, but no, he is not OK).

Sitting upright he feels the bottle of Captain Morgan (rum is always the answer, it's the only answer) roll onto the hardwood floor.

He scoffs at how empty it sounds.

What's even more pathetic is he isn't surprised. It wouldn't be the first time.

Truthfully, it's the fifth night he has fallen asleep in a drunken stupor. Did everything he could to erase the visions of Emma's distraught face from his mind.

It's been a week since he last saw her, been a week since his breath had hitched (and his cock had strained) at the outfit she was wearing (and by how tight it was, he could only thank and hate Ruby for it), been a week since he felt his heart shatter even more when Ruby had slyly told him Emma had a new man.

It's been a week since he had tried, so desperately, to salvage any part of the girl who he once had, the girl he still loves—to build something, anything, with a girl that's no longer his.

It really shouldn't have surprised him how she had responded, shouldn't have hurt him as much to hear the words he had said leave her mouth. He couldn't blame her (it was his fault, always his fucking fault), but it hurt all the same.

So that night, after she had left, he had drank. He had taken shot after shot and glass after glass and bottle after bottle until he couldn't walk, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but slur out the words "I'm sorry."

(And yes he is grateful for Robin and David for dragging his drunken ass back home, but yes, he is just as embarrassed because how many more times does he have to make a fool of himself?)

More often than not, he thinks, as he drags himself to his actual bed.

Because like he knows, this is the fifth time since then, because what else is there to do?

What else is there for him this late at night when he only has a big empty bed and no gentle smile to kiss him to sleep?

What else is there for him this late at night when he just feels cold and lonely and heart broken?

What else is there?

He's tired, he's bloody fucking tired, so he drinks: because he's tired, because he wants to forget, because he wants to chase away the memories—the dreams—of a girl with green eyes.

Because that's just it, she is nothing more than just a dream.

His dream. His wish.

The shooting star that got away.

The one that didn't fall on its own.

It's his fault he set that star on fire. He burned it on his own.

* * *

It's three in the afternoon by the time Killian decides to officially get out of bed.

It's four by the time he decides he doesn't want breakfast (or lunch, or at this rate even dinner, because he honestly knows he can't stomach it) and decides to go get ice cream at Heidi's Parlour.

It's half-past four when he hears the bell ring and it's only ten seconds later that he feels, more than sees, Emma walk in.

She's standing there, a baggy sweater covering her thin frame, her hair tossed up in a ponytail—and oh God, what he would do to just gently push a loose blonde strand behind her ear, but he doesn't, he won't.

He can't.

Because the more he stares, the more he realizes that—not only is she still as beautiful as she's always been (and probably will always be)—her hand is delicately holding that of another man.

Killian knows it's Walsh of all people (but to this day he will still deny how he glanced through Ruby's photos she had posted online of the brand new "couple") and despite how neutral and natural he contorts his face, he can feel the pain clenching in his stomach, can feel the twist of his heart, can hear the pounding of the blood rushing through him fuelled with anger and jealousy and hatred…and guilt.

The couple—he really hates referring to them as that—walks towards the diminishing order line and Killian nods.

"Emma."

Her name leaves his lips like a hymn, he doubts it'll ever sound like anything but and he internally cringes, turning his eyes back to the ice cream selection for him.

He is an idiot.

Of course she just had to pop into this ice cream parlour of all places. He tries to forget the fact that this is where he took her on their first date (after six months of flirting and innuendoes and bothering until she finally caved).

And at first he forgot that little tidbit—blamed his love for the specific ice cream at this place (there really is no other place in the city that holds his favourite flavour: mint-chocolate caramel swirl)—but now, with her, standing there in her green-eyed-blonde-haired glory the memories are flooding back.

And it's too much.

It's always been too much with her.

And he's an idiot, because right here, right now he doesn't know what to do—except have his thoughts wander to the only question: _does she remember too?_

"Hello, Killian."

His name sounds like poison on her lips and he can't blame her. Can't blame how awkward she must feel, he can see it on her face as her turns back to her, can see how vulnerable and scared and broken she looks standing there.

But before the staring match can go on even longer, Walsh—the name tastes like poison on his lips—reaches his hand out and introduces himself.

"Ah so you're Killian."

Killian raises and eyebrow, undecided as to whether the fact Walsh knows him is a good or bad thing.

"Aye, and you must be Emma's lovely new business-man of a beau," Killian plasters a smile on his face as he politely shakes Walsh's hand (although at the moment, as he internally seethes, he can't help but curse Liam for teaching him to always be a gentleman).

"I see the summer heat's brought everyone here," Killian cheerfully adds.

Walsh laughs and Killian can see how the man playfully squeezes Emma's hand, bringing her pale hand towards his lips to give it a gentle kiss. Killian chooses that moment to turn away, pointing to the cone and scoop he wants.

"This one," Walsh says. "Could not get the thought of not having a…what was it again?"

Emma answers, meekly, silently, that if Killian hadn't already memorized her favourite flavour—that if he hadn't known what exactly the concoction tasted like when it came off her lips—he'd be a confused mess.

On instinct, the both reply.

"Lemon and cherry bubble gum ice cream."

They both freeze, their eyes locked—blue glued on green, green glued on blue.

He can't tell if it's surprise etched on her skin or discomfort, but Killian can't help but want to laugh because really who did Emma think he was if he already forgot what her favourite flavour was?

God, how could he ever forget anything about her? How could he ever forget about how she liked cinnamon with her cocoa, or how she always had to match her bra to her underwear (something he had enjoyed very often), or how she always cried when she watched Titanic, or even how she only liked the vanilla scented shampoo from this one no name brand at the general drug store?

How could he ever forget?

"If you ask me, chocolate is a perfectly fine flavour."

The sound of Walsh's voice breaks the tension between the two. If the man has noticed he doesn't mention it and while deep down Killian hates him, he is also grateful.

"Well, you know Emma, always has the _oddest tastes_," Killian laughs, raising an eyebrow, hoping the double-entendre is evident between the layers of amusement.

With the way she subtly glares daggers at him, Killian puffs his chest internally like a peacock.

So she did notice. It makes him smile.

"That she does."

It seems Walsh didn't pick it up and Killian relishes in the silent victory, but it's quickly cut short as Walsh gently kisses Emma's cheek.

At that second Killian can't help but be grateful for Heidi's voice returning his attention to his now finished order.

Relieved, Killian turns around to grab his cone.

"Well, I hope you two love birds have a good day! " Killian says with a smile, as he slowly walks towards the exit. "It was nice meeting you Walsh."

Who does he think he is? Because all he can think about as he rushes out of the store, not even bothering to glance back at Emma and Walsh, is that he's an idiot, a bloody, sodding idiot. Because no matter how he plastered on a smile and sent well wishes, he didn't mean a single damn word.

He doesn't even bother to take a bite out of his ice cream, decidedly throwing it into the nearest trash can and angrily shoves his left hand in his pocket.

It's still there (has been for the past three months), only today the ring both burns and freezes his fingers as he caresses the familiar curve. It's small and simple and nothing grand (because he's always known Emma isn't a grand-gesture type of girl and it's what he always loved - still does - about her) but it feels like the heaviest weight clenched in his fist.

He wishes it would stop. Wishes he could just stomp back around and do anything and everything to convince Emma to put it on, to take _it_ back, to come back, to take _him_ back.

But he does the exact opposite.

He just keeps walking.

What's the use?

He clenches his fist around the ring one last time and let's go.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER** **THREE**  
_"We built these walls to keep out complications."_

* * *

She watches his retreating figure as he disappears around the corner.

She's an idiot.

It could've been any other day, any other She should've settled for chocolate or vanilla at the closest parlour, because she knows better.

Walsh looks down at her as if nothing's happened, as if it's another day, another date, but Emma knows better.

Because it is not nothing—_this moment is everything_ and she feels like crying, because she is a giant idiot.

She just needed it, wanted it, and why, why, why is Heidi's the only place that has lemon and cherry bubble gum ice cream?

She is a giant idiot.

It was never about the ice cream: it was about routine, and normalcy, and trying so desperately to feel and be the girl she was months ago—the girl she wants desperately to be.

And maybe a cruel part of her wanted to feel like a date at Heidi's could restore that, could erase the faint dreams she still has of blue eyes and a smile for her, could erase the memories of a Saturday afternoon and a cone shared between two, could be a new page, a new story, a new _anything _and _everything_.

But she is a giant _selfish_ idiot, because a date with Walsh and ice cream can't fix that.

So Emma just tugs his arm before he can even order and heads for the door.

She doesn't want ice cream anymore.

Then again, she doesn't really know what she wants.

And maybe that's just always been her problem to begin with.

* * *

Emma is sulking. It has been two weeks and she is sulking.

At this point Ruby and Mary-Margaret have taken notice and she can't even bother covering it up with "stress from law school" because even Emma knows she is not herself, that she is on edge, that she is too consumed with regret and hurt and Walsh and _Killian._

"You are absolutely insufferable."

Emma looks up from her place on the couch, pulling the blanket closer to her neck. She glances over at Ruby, whose head is bent down, her fingers carefully painting her nails red.

"Don't give me that look Emma, you're being a ridiculous mess. Can you just talk to him already?"

Emma knits her brows together and lets out a sigh, she flips through the channels mechanically once more.

"Me and Walsh talked this morning."

Ruby just sighs and blows on her nails. Emma can feel the brunette's eyes on hers and she does her best to ignore her (but even Emma can handle glares for so long before she turns to her friend).

"Don't even try that game with me Emma. I've known you since freshman year. I meant Killian."

Hearing his name in the open causes shivers to run up Emma's spine and she tries to bury the feelings of uneasiness in the pit of her stomach.

"I don't know why you think I'd even want to call him."

Emma's voice is neutral, cold, hurt and she hopes the memory of her tear-stained-face appearing at Ruby's apartment is enough to remind her friend as to why exactly calling Killian is a bad, bad, bad idea.

(But even Emma knows that ammunition is weak against her friend.)

"Because you're a mess and don't even try to say seeing him at Heidi's meant nothing," Ruby comes to sit beside Emma, hogging some of the blanket for herself. "Emma, it's been almost four months. Can't you at least try?"

Emma pinches the bridge of her nose and inhales. She doesn't want to have this conversation, isn't ready for this conversation, because of course she's tried—they both tried—and of course they ended up in this mess, that has unfortunately caught all their friends in the middle of a less-than-furious-but-still-painful battle of tug-of-war.

And yes, she feels guilty, because it's not fair to them, but Emma is selfish and when exactly has life been fair to her?

"I'm tired."

The statement seems so hollow, echoing through the apartment.

Emma is tired, in every sense, and she doesn't have to explain because the way Ruby is looking at her and reaching out to place her hand on top of her friend's, she knows.

"He used to make you really smile."

Memories flood Emma's mind and she clenches her eyes to will them away. It is almost ten and she doesn't want to think about this, doesn't want to think about how her bed is empty, and her room is cold, and how he's moved on and she has too…but…

"Walsh makes me smile."

Ruby sighs and turns her attention to the movie on TV (Emma is grateful Ruby doesn't bring up how it is Ever After and it is the scene in which Henry and Danielle make-up).

"You know that's not what I meant," Ruby finally replies.

The sentence hangs in the air, and Emma wishes she could pluck each syllable from the room because she knows what Ruby means but she wishes she didn't.

(She also tries to ignore how Henry and Danielle are holding hands and smiling and this is it, this is the end and their beginning and "we, princess, are supposed to live happily ever after."

But she is Emma and this scene always pulls at her heart and she is Emma so just for a second she hopes for that too—always has, even when she was little, even when she was alone.)

"I'll call him tomorrow."

* * *

One foot in front of the other is all Emma tries to focus. She tries to keep her breathing even, tries to keep her attention on the tree in the distance, on the gravel beneath her feet, on the remnants of summer that still linger in autumn's evening chill.

She can feel him behind her, can hear his deep inhales of breath (he was never much of a runner, always chose sailing or fencing as his sport), can feel the thuds of his sneakers hitting the ground. She tries to not pay attention to how close he is behind her, giving her space, but not disappearing entirely.

It's bittersweet, she thinks as she sounds the corner, now he follows her.

She shakes the thought from her mind.

"We're both being ridiculous," Emma says as she suddenly stops, whirling around to only have him collide into her. His blue eyes are blown wide in shock and his cheeks flushed from exhaustion (if they were dating she would comment how adorable he looks, but they're not dating, so she won't).

"Lass, I'll have to agree with you on this one, I have no idea why you asked me to come running," Killian is bent over, his hands resting firmly on his knees, every other word followed by the sounds of him gulping for air.

She just rolls her eyes, "And I thought you'd be excited I actually called you."

The change in the air is instant from the second the sentence falls from her mouth. He looks up at her then, their eyes colliding.

He nods, "Well, I mean, it threw me off guard, but I am Killian Jones."

He winks at her.

"No girl can really resist my charm for long."

There he is. Emma sees the playful boy she used to know unravel before her and she realizes how easy it is to go back, to revert to their old selves, to return to the jovial and teasing way their lives had always been.

(And for what she's about to do, maybe that is a good thing, but then maybe it's not—she can't decide.)

(And if Ruby were here, the brunette would simply roll her eyes and try to shove both Emma and Killian's heads together into a hug as if they were her own personal Barbie dolls—and Emma happily shakes that thought from her mind.)

"Back to the point, we're being ridiculous."

Killian just nods, the glint disappearing from his eyes as his face returns to a steeling expression. She can only assume he recognizes her tone, her "we-need-to –talk" tone, her "whenever-a-woman-says-that-to-me-I'm-never-in-for-a-pleasnt-conversation tone that Killian is all too familiar.

She breathes.

"You were right."

At that statement Killian raises and eyebrow and she can tell he's about to come back with some witty retort (probably along the lines of: well, Swan that's a first), but she raises her hand to stop him before hand.

"We have the same friends. We are bound to see each other again. It has been a month since the bar incident and two weeks since the parlour. Clearly New York isn't big enough. So, as two grown adults I think we should be able to move past that."

Killian just nods.

For a second, Emma just stares at him, looks at the way his hair has grown, the sweat making it cling to his forehead, the tips caressing his eyelashes, and a small part of her wants to push them out of his face, to soothe the creases in his forehead, but she won't.

She doesn't.

That's not what she should do—it's not what she has to say.

So she says what she should.

"Let's be friends."

The three words catch him off guard, but she catches the quick flicker of happiness in his eyes, the way tension seems to life from his shoulders, how he stands straighter. (And if he happens to quirk his lips up in a grin that she has missed, that has her feeling like she's melted, that she just wishes she could kiss off his lips, she chooses to ignore it.)

"Friends," Killian says, reaching his hand out.

She's not sure if this is what she wants—if this is enough for her, for him, for them, for_whatever is left_ of them.

But for now it's enough.

(Because now Ruby and stop yelling and Mary-Margaret can stop looking at her as if she is broken glass and Emma can maybe, finally, breathe.)

She shakes his hand.

(The twist in her gut doesn't go away. But she'll ignore it. Just as she'll ignore the sparks that shoot up her arm and the tightness in her heart.)

* * *

**A/N:** I just wanted to clarify that in the last chapter Killian didn't throw the ring in the streets. The entire time he was holding the ring, it remained in his jeans pocket. Just wanted to clear up some confusion I was receiving on reviews! Thank you for reading!


End file.
